


December 4: Snowman

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Series: December (Christmas) Challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Bubble Bath, Day 4, December Fanfic Challenge, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Parentlock, Rimming, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Snowmen, Top John Watson, soft, winter vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 01:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16944786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: John and Sherlock have a string of cases that leave them exhausted, and Rosie beyond grumpy from the constant go, go, go of The Work. Sherlock surprises John with a getaway to the lovely snow in Upstate New York.





	December 4: Snowman

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest Readers,
> 
> So sorry for the delay in my Christmas fics- there was a death, and then a funeral, and this week is the last week of Grad class before the end of the semester, and I just haven't had any time. My deepest apologies! I promise I am working to get caught up.
> 
> Second, in case you were wondering, I grew up in the Finger Lakes Region in NY and am just feeling a tad nostalgic and home sick right now. 
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes- most of this work was written on my phone which is not ideal.
> 
> Comments and kudos are lovely and always appreciated- thank you everyone who's taken the time to comment, read, or leave kudos on one of my other Christmas fics, it's been a joy to see them. <3

When Rosie is 4, John and Sherlock decide to take the second weekend in December away from London, away from the UK.

They’ve just come off a string of cases that have run them ragged, Rosie is moody and cranky all of the time, it’s simply too much. On Thursday morning they'd gotten in at half four, woken up to get Rosie ready for school at 7:00, taken her to school and dropped back into bed.

When John  woke up in the early afternoon he was disoriented and groggy, “Too much,” he groaned. “It’s too much, Sherlock. We need a break.”

“I agree,” Sherlock rumbles from where he lays sprawled across John’s chest.

“When is the last time we had sex?” he complains, “I can't even remember. And I want to have sex with you, it's in the back of my mind, all the time. The little voice saying, 'you're mad about that man, positively besotted with him,' but I’m too exhausted by the time we get to bed.”

“I know,” Sherlock soothes.

“And Rosie,” John groans. “The constant going and going, she been a right terror. All of it, it’s wearing her out.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, kindly.

“We need a break,” John says again, stroking his fingers through the knots in Sherlock’s hair. “I want to just sit down to dinner together, dinner that we had the energy to make, and I want to eat it when it’s hot and we are all together. And I know I sound like a 50's housewife, but I just want the simple pleasure of eating as a family."

“I know.”

“Listen," John says tamping down the nerves in the pit of his belly and steeling himself for what he's about to say, "I think we have to tell Greg no more cases for a few days."

“I know,” Sherlock replies.

“Are you even listening to me?” John asks, looking down at the other man.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, calm as anything, as though John hadn’t just said he was ignoring him. “I agree, John. I text Lestrade this morning and told him not to contact us for cases until next week.”

“You did?” he asks in surprise.

Sherlock nods, “Then I went online and found us plane tickets.”

“Plane tickets?”

“Yes. Lovely place in the states. I thought we’d just get out entirely for a little while.”

“Huh.” John says, unable to think of an appropriate response for a moment. “Where are we going, then?”

“Upstate New York."

John groans. “So we’re leaving one massively busy city for another.”

“No, _Upstate_ , John,” Sherlock says as though that should clear things up. “Upstate is like farms and vineyards.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes. I found this lovely little two bedroom cabin that overlooks a lake in the middle of nowhere on Air B&B. It’s called the ‘Finger Lakes Region,’ lots of vineyards and wineries. It’s about fifteen minutes outside of the nearest town, settled on ten acres of land,” Sherlock tells him, sounding wistful.

“Who needs ten acres of land?” John asks, but can’t help but be charmed by the other man’s attitude.

“You’ll love it. Rosie will love it. I booked it for us over the weekend.”

“Rosie will have to miss school tomorrow,” John says thoughtfully.

“She’ll be fine,” he says with a huff, “We need this, John. A few days of peace and quiet.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Yes. The master bedroom has a bathtub in it.”

“Americans,” John says with a chuckle.

“Indeed.”

“When do we leave?”

“Mmm, our flight takes off at 7pm, we have a 7 hour flight, an hour and a half layover at JFK, then a quick hour flight to Rochester. We’re there by 10:00am local time. It’s an hour and a half drive to the middle of nowhere, then three full days of solitude,” Sherlock recites.

“That’s a long travel time with a four year old,” John says reasonably.

“It’s over night. She’ll be fine.” He sighs, “and we have first class tickets, she’ll be more than comfortable.”

“First class? Sherlock, how much are we spending on this mini vacation?” John’s asks, feeling mildly alarmed, thinking of all the Christmas shopping they’ve yet to do.

“The tickets are comped,” Sherlock says with a shrug. “So were paying for the rental car and the cottage, but that’s all.”

“Seriously? That can’t have been cheap for the person comping us.”

“Yes, well, neither are my services ordinarily,” Sherlock replies loftily.

John grins, “Your services, huh?” He slides his hand down Sherlock’s spine and down the back of his pyjamas, “What sort of services do you provide? And can I find a way to work off my debt in return?”

Sherlock moves so his body is covering John’s, “I think that could be arranged.”  
\-----------------

John is right. The flight there with Rosie is fairly miserable. Their initial flight out of London gets delayed, then they miss their connecting flight in New York and end up waiting around in the airport for hours for the next one. When they arrive, the area they drive through is all brown and grey, and dead. John is sure it must be beautiful any other season of the year, all the trees and fields, but it looks terrible right now.

By the time they arrive at the cabin it's already 4:30 in the afternoon and they're all feeling irritable. So they settle in for Christmas movies in front of the fire and delivered Chinese food. Bed time comes early for everyone, with the promise of fun tomorrow. John falls into a deep sleep, Sherlock’s body wrapped around his and Rosie tucked upstairs in the loft. The next thing he knows, Sherlock is shaking his shoulder and gently murmuring his name.

“Mmh?” John grunts in response, barely opening an eye.

“Look outside,” Sherlock prompts, gently nudging his shoulder.

John groans and closes his eyes, “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock says, a whine creeping into his voice so John opens his eyes in irritation and sits up to look out the doors that lead onto a balcony. He’s fully prepared to continue be irritated and snarky, but the sight takes his breath away.

It’s snowing, huge puffy snowflakes drift lazily from the sky, they’ve blanketed all of the brown and grey in perfect white. It’s snows in London, of course, but it doesn’t settle, not like this. “Wow,” he breathes.

Sherlock kisses his shoulder, “Get up, get dressed.” Then Sherlock’s out of bed and moving out of their room.

“Where are you going?” John calls.

Sherlock doesn’t reply but several minutes later, once John has struggled into jeans and a jumper, Sherlock appears with Rosie, still in her pyjamas. “Look outside, bee,” Sherlock encourages.

Rosie lights up and she squirms to get down and rush to the doors in the room, pressing her face and hands against the glass to get a closer look. “Can we go outside?” she begs.

Sherlock looks at John, “Yes, alright.” John says, pointedly not looking at the clock.

Rosie cheers and Sherlock grins brightly at him. “Come on, Miss Rosie,” Sherlock says, “into your snow pants and coat.”

They get Rosie dressed and John and Sherlock bundle themselves as well before opening the front door and heading out into the expansive lawn below.

Rosie laughs with unbridled delight, tipping her head up to the sky and spinning with her arms out until she falls over. John wraps an arm around Sherlock as they watch her and rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Thanks for waking us up for this.”

Sherlock nods, “Snow like this happens a lot here,” he says absently. “Because of all the lakes. I researched it before we came.”

Rosie throws handfuls of the white, fluffy snow into the air and screeches as it falls down on her.

“Rosamond,” Sherlock says, drawing away from John and moving over to her, “Would you like to make a snowman?”

Rosie looks up at him, eyes bright, and nods her head vigorously, curls slipping out of her hat to bounce around her face.

“Alright,” Sherlock says kneeling beside her, “You start with a ball of snow,” he says, packing a handful of snow to demonstrate, “Then you roll it on the ground.” John watches as Sherlock helps her to get a ball started.

“Daddy!” Rosie shouts when she has a wobbly ball approximately four inches in diameter, “Look!” she crows with delight.

“I see it, Ro.”

“Daddy, you make one,” she says, eyes bright and pleading.

Sherlock looks up at John from where he’s still kneeling in the snow, his eyes twinkling with merriment, “Yes, you make one.”

“I’ve never actually built a snowman,” John says as he kneels down near them and starts trying to roll his own ball.

“Mycroft and I made one out of fake snow when I was little.”

“Fake snow?” John asks, his ball has grown quickly and he finds himself crawling along the ground on his knees in the mud he’d exposed by rolling the snow.

“Yes, we made it out of baking soda and conditioner. We had to buy loads of both, then we made it in the bathtub and built it on the floor in the bathroom. Father thought it was hilarious, mummy was not so amused.”

John laughs.

“Papa, look out!” Rosie shouts, rolling her snowball across the path Sherlock had been headed down.

Sherlock laughs and the three of them continue roll their balls around the yard.

“Daddy,” Rosie directs, “Come put yours here,” she says, pointing to a space slightly to the left of hers. “Papa, yours goes here,” she says, gesturing to the right of her base.

“Yes, m’am,” Sherlock says with a salute. They both roll theirs to their respective locations.

“Now make another,” Rosie insists.

They look at each other with twin smirks, Rosie's the queen bee and she knows it. They’re both wrapped around her little finger.

The three of them set to work, rolling their middle balls. John chuckles when Rosie tells them enough and instructs them to bring their snow balls over. She directs them as John and Sherlock lift the middle balls onto their bases, telling them when they’ve gotten it lined up just right.

“Now, make the heads!”

They follow their directive, rolling their last ball of snow to place on top. Once the snowmen are settled in, the three of them head out in search of branches.

John gets distracted from the mission because he’s too busy watching Rosie trudging through snow up to her knees toward Sherlock. She’s laughing hysterically at Sherlock who is making a show of digging around for branches under a giant oak.

Sherlock tugs exaggeratedly at a branch he’s found and Rosie shouts, “Pull, papa!”

“I’m pulling!” he shouts back.

“Here, papa,” she says when she reaches him, pushing against his thigh to get him to stand aside. “I will help you.” Rosie gives it a mighty heave, pulling it out of the snow and only tipping a little on her feet.

“Oh, thank you, bee,” Sherlock says, taking it from her and moving toward another. Eventually they’ve pulled out five more and John scoops Rosie up into his arms and presses a kiss to her pink cheek as they return to their snowmen. She squirms to get down when they arrive and Sherlock hands out two branches to each of them. They put the arms in and Rosie directs them to rearrange the branches so they’re holding hands.

“Tomorrow morning,” Sherlock says, “Well go into town and buy some carrots and other thing to give them proper faces. For now, we’ll just draw them on.”

As he does just that, Rosie reaches for John to be picked up, he hefts her into his arms, grunting with the effort. “My goodness, you’ve gotten big, my darling.”

Rosie snuggles into his shoulder, pressings her ice cube of a nose to his neck as she nods. “I’m gonna be as tall as papa when I grow up,” she murmurs drowsily.

It’s unlikely, John thinks, but he says, “You just may be, Ro.”

“What do you say we go back in to bed now?” Sherlock asks softly, pressings a hand to John’s back as he leans in and kisses Rosie’s cheek.

“M’not sleepy,” Rosie tells them, sounding quite the opposite.

“How about we go in and I’ll tuck you in and read stories until you fall asleep?” Sherlock reasons.

“Alright.”

John grins over at Sherlock as they head toward the door. Once they get inside, John sends Sherlock to put on dry pyjamas of his own as he sets Rosie down and peels off her soaked snow suit. “Papa’s going to take you up and get you in some dry jammies while I get all of this wet stuff hung up to dry. Yes?”

She nods and John lifts her, he kisses her forehead, “Goodnight, my darling, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, daddy,” she mumbles.

Sherlock lifts her from John’s arms and takes her upstairs to bed. He sees how big she looks in Sherlock's arms and can’t help but wonder where all the time has gone.

He hangs Rosie’s things up to dry then heads into the master bedroom, grabbing two towels from the bathroom on the way. Rosie may be ready to sleep, but John wasn’t feeling tired in the least at this moment.

He strips out of his wet clothes, draping them over the drying rack in their room and starts filling the monstrosity of a tub in their room. It’s a big oval shaped tub, clearly built for two adults to fit into. The water spills in from the side like a waterfall and if has fifteen different buttons for water temperature, jet speed, lights, music, heater, and others that John can’t imagine what they do.

He sets the temperature, turns on the jets and climbs in, settling into one of the carved out seats and groaning as the jets massage his sore muscles. He changes the speed and moans again, tensions building then draining in his lower back.

“Starting without me?” a deep voice rumbles at him.

John opens his eyes a slit to look at his lovely genius. “I don’t know, this thing might give you a run for your money.”

“Ooh, I’m feeling rather threatened by that machine,” Sherlock says silkily as he lets his T-shirt and pyjama pants fall to the floor and steps into the tub. Instead of sitting in the seat facing John he straddles John’s lap and combs his fingers through John’s hair. “I wonder how I can possibly compete?”

John slides his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his spine until he reaches his arse. He massages those muscled globes in his palms, “Dunno,” John says casually. “You’re a clever boy, you’ll think of something,” he teases.

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, his face growing serious. “I’ve missed you,” Sherlock says softly as he buries his face in John’s shoulder.

John slides his hands back to a more respectable position on Sherlock’s back, “I know, sweetheart.”

“I've been thinking," he says, voice muffled from where his face is pressed into John's shoulder. "Maybe we should take a break from the work. Just until Rosie's a little bit older."

“Sherlock, you don’t want that," John says without a thought.

“Maybe I do,” he replies a hint defensively. “The cases are exhausting.”

“You love the cases,” John says, wondering what all this is really about.

“I love you,” he snaps. “And I love Rosie.”

John’s quiet for a moment, deciding how best to respond. “I know. But it’s okay to love both, you know, the work and us,” he soothes, rubbing a hand up and down the other man’s spine.

“But you’re exhausted and worn out. Rosie was a bear last week. We can’t keep doing this, you've said so yourself."

“Moderation,” John says. “You’re right we can’t keep running ourselves ragged like we have been, but that doesn’t mean giving up what you love. It just means we don’t take case, after case, after case with no break. It means we set some reasonable boundaries and we take time for our family. And I know it’s hard because people need help, but we just have to be aware of what’s going on with us.”

“I’m not good at moderation,” Sherlock huffs.

“Don’t I know it,” John quips. “I, however, am excellent at moderation and impulse control. We just have to do this together, Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now I was rather hoping I might be able to have sex with you,” John says with a grin.

“Seems like we ought to enjoy the tub a little longer, since it takes an abhorrent amount of water to fill it.”

“I don’t see why we can’t do both.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock rumbles at him, “I like the way you think.”

John pushes himself away from the wall and catches Sherlock’s body, tucking him into the seat across from where they’d been sitting and settling between his legs.

He’d imagined once they got into this position, he’d manage to initiate something resembling sex, but Sherlock shudders when their bodies meet, and wraps his arms around John’s shoulders. “John,” he whispers and His voice is so small, and lost, and afraid that John doesn’t want to do anything more than hold him.

“I’ve got you,” John replies, realizing for the first time just how hard the past few weeks have been, and just how hard Sherlock’s been working to hold it together. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs again.

Then he just holds him. He wraps Sherlock in his arms and holds him. Sherlock sighs and melts against him, tucking his head against John’s clavicle and his arms in between their bodies so that John’s cocooning him.

They stay like that for a long time, just pressed against one another. When Sherlock's body unfurls a bit, John whispers into Sherlock's curls. "I love you,” then, "And I’m never leaving.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, voice soft and small.

“Do you?” he asks sincerely.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm, seemed like you were afraid I was going to leave if you didn’t do something drastic like stop taking cases,” John says with a shrug.

“I just want you to be happy.”

And John doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't have the words to tell Sherlock that he'd never even let himself dream that he would find someone like him to spend the rest of his life with. He doesn't know how to say he never thought he'd have a family or feel this full and this complete. Instead he says, “I am happy, sweetheart,” he swallows around the emotion rising in his throat. “Truly, I am. Our life together..." he trails off, "You, Rosie, and me, it’s the best. I’m just a grumpy old man sometimes.”

“You’re not an old man,” Sherlock says, sounding mildly offended.

“I feel old some days.”

“What about right now?” Sherlock asks, his hand sliding down John’s chest to trail along his cock.

“Not this exact moment, no.”

“Will you take me to bed?” he whispers.

“I think I will,” John says, drawing back far enough to kiss him. He brushes his thumbs over Sherlock’s neck then pulls back. “Come on, then.”

They stand and dry off quickly with the big, fluffy white towels John brought into the bedroom for their bath. They slip under the covers together, not bothering to put clothes on, and John covers Sherlock’s body with his own once more. Sherlock’s eyes slip closed and it’s ecstasy.

“I’ve got you,” John murmurs again.

Sherlock’s eyes stay closed but he nods slowly, well and truly in what John personally refers to as Sherlock’s headspace, a lovely little bubble he slips into when he’s been overstimulated and overworked for far too long.

He brushes his fingers over every part of Sherlock’s face, tracing eyebrows, cheekbones, lips, jaw, then ears. “What do you want?”

“I need you,” Sherlock moans. “Please, John, I need you inside of me.” Sherlock opens his eyes and looks straight into John’s eyes, seemingly into the very core of John’s being, “I need you to remind me I’m yours.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes before he’s pressing his lips to the other man’s, licking and molding their lips together.

Sherlock whimpers and arches further into John, fingers scrabbling for purchase against John’s back. John kisses him for long minutes, until Sherlock’s lips and tongue are moving against his and he’s gasping, his cock semi hard against John’s hip.

John slides down Sherlock’s body, then, dropping kisses to any area of skin he passes, tongue and lips slick against Sherlock’s flesh. “John,” Sherlock whimpers, his voice soft and breathy in a way that never ceases to amaze John and put flames in the pit of his belly.

He continues down, down, down until his shoulders are settled between Sherlock’s thighs and he positively covers him with kisses. His mouth moves over Sherlock’s groin hotly, pressing kisses to his hips, his pubic bone, the lovely crease between his thigh and groin, his tongue dances against his hard cock and trails lightly over his balls.

Above him, Sherlock lets out soft utterances and whimpers, John’s heart taps double time in his chest in response. He lifts Sherlock’s cock off his belly and takes him into his mouth.

“Huuhhhng,” Sherlock cries, “John!”

John sucks lightly, tonguing at his frenulum, just to hear Sherlock’s whimpers.

“Here,” Sherlock groans and Sherlock’s shoving a bottle of lube at him.

He takes it, but only holds it in his hand, continuing to leisurely suck Sherlock’s cock.

“John,” Sherlock moans, “Inside.”

John pulls of Sherlock’s cock and murmurs, “Grab the backs of your knees.”

Sherlock obeys, grabbing his knees and pulling them up to his chest, putting all of the choosiest bits of himself on display for John.

“Lovely,” John says with a groan.

Sherlock’s eyes fall closed and he’s tilting his head back, preening under the attention.

He settles between Sherlock’s legs once more, cupping Sherlock’s gorgeous arse in his palms and spreading him open with his thumbs. His tongue flickers out between Sherlock’s buttocks, tickling over Sherlock’s hole and causing the other man to try to squirm. He can’t move much, John’s got a firm grip on his arse and Sherlock whimpers all the more at his lack of mobility.

“John,” he moans, and John loves it when he’s like this, when the only words he can get to come out of his mouth is nonsense and John’s name.

He lets his tongue delve deeper so he’s pressing the flat of it against Sherlock’s hole and rubbing over the other man’s perineum with long, hard strokes. He licks and licks until Sherlock’s skin is so wet John can hardly tell where his mouth begins and Sherlock’s flesh ends. He licks and sucks at Sherlock until the noises pouring from Sherlock’s mouth sound only vaguely human, until every ounce of bossiness Sherlock possesses is drown out and he knows that John is taking care of him because he wants to and not because Sherlock is telling him to.

John slicks his index finger with lube and presses it inside of the other man’s body. Sherlock arches his back and draws his legs up higher, presenting himself to John.

“Yes,” he breathes, “John.”

John drops a kiss on his hip and slowly continues thrusting in and out, enjoying the feeling of the other man’s muscles opening for him, twitching and relaxing around his finger.

He adds another and Sherlock keens, body trembling from the effort of keeping his legs up.

“Relax,” John murmurs, moving his body out of the way and using his other hand to guide Sherlock’s feet to rest on the bed, knees bent and open. “I’ve got you,” John says.

Sherlock’s fingers move up to his hair and John watches as he tugs at it, eyes still closed.

It takes a bit of wiggling, but John manages to move so he’s lying at Sherlock’s side, he combs his own fingers through Sherlock’s fringe, brushing it back off his face. Sherlock’s hands fall to the pillow on either side of his head, giving over the pleasure of having his hair touched to John, too.

John rubs his scalp, massaging his fingers over all of the places he knows Sherlock is most sensitive. Sherlock’s jaw drops and his knees fall open further.

John angles his fingers, crooking them just so and massaging over the other man’s prostate in slow circles. Sherlock’s cock twitches against his stomach and he cries out John’s name followed by a string of unrecognizable syllables.

“That’s it, darling,” John encourages, leaning in and sucking Sherlock’s lower lip between his own. He rubs his tongue over it, then pulls back once more to watch as he painstakingly slowly presses a third finger inside of his lovers body.

Sherlock’s fingers clench tight in the pillow case and his head tilts back, his skin is covered in the glossy sheen of sweat. “Oh,” he breathes, hips pressing down to impale himself further. “Yes,” he gasps as all three of John’s fingers move over his prostate.

He loves him like this. He adores Sherlock Holmes loose and open in body and in spirit. John kisses his forehead as he thrusts in and out of Sherlock’s body, amazed for the hundredth time that he is allowed the privilege of touching the other man like this, of holding him, and kissing him, and seeing him this way. “I love you,” John murmurs, hoping it sounds like the promise that it is.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers, fingers abandoning their place wrapped in the pillow case to cup John’s cheek and draw their lips together. John melds their lips together, kissing Sherlock softly, with all the tenderness he can muster. They kiss for a long time, John’s fingers continuing to leisurely stretch the other man.

When John finally draws back to look down at Sherlock, he sees that he looks positively wrecked. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed a deep pink, eyes glassy and pupils dilated enough that John can barely see any color surrounding them at all, his chest is heaving and his fingers are spasming against John’s shoulders.

John pulls his fingers out and wipes them quickly on one of the towels on the side of the bed. Then he moves to cover Sherlock with his body again, slicking his cock and lining it up with Sherlock’s hole smoothly.

Sherlock stares up at John like he’s the stars in the sky and John wonders if his face looks the same. He slowly presses inside of Sherlock’s body, feeling his hole open further and further to let him in, and he wonders if it will ever stop feeling like the most amazing gift he’s ever received, to be with the other man this way. He reaches up and slots his fingers between Sherlock’s, clasping his hands and pressing them back into the pillow on either side of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock clings to him, fingers clenching tightly as his legs wrap around John’s hips, tilting his pelvis higher. “I love you,” Sherlock whispers.

“I love you, too,” John replies as his cock slides fully into the other man’s body.

They stay like that for a long moment, locked together, staring into one another’s eyes, more connected than they’ve ever been to anyone else. “I’m yours,” John whispers and brushes his lips over Sherlock’s. “All that I am, all that I’ll ever be, it’s yours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks up at him, “Me too,” he says softly. “You’re it for me.”

John nods once, then starts to move, slowly and surely in and out of Sherlock’s body, maintaining as many points of contact as he can the entire time.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers, body pressing up against John’s as if he wants their bodies to sink into one, as if their very skin is too much a barrier between them.

“I love you,” John says again, hips rolling a notch faster, abdomen rubbing over Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock arches his back, fingers spasming in John’s grip, “John,” he gasps, jaw dropping as a wordless cry emerges and his cock spills between them.

It’s enough, the way Sherlock looks as he orgasms, the way he feels wrapped around John. He let’s go, too, his body spiraling into the abyss.

They lay locked together for some indeterminable amount of time, neither quite ready to give up the intimacy and closeness. Eventually, John decides to move first, rolling the two of them so they’re on their sides facing one another and tucking Sherlock under his chin.

Sherlock snuggles in willingly, draping an arm over John’s waist.

And there are a million things John wants to say, a million ways he wants to tell Sherlock he loves him. There are words piled in every corner of his brain, ready to leak out at any moment. He takes a breath, not sure where to start, but then Sherlock places a kiss over his heart, and murmurs, “Me too,” and John lets the words go.

He kisses Sherlock’s curls and they fall asleep, knowing they’re more understood than they’d ever imagined they’d be.


End file.
